Flaming For Red
by queeryuki
Summary: This is the story of Madam Red and Grell's relationship, a story of red blood and passion and mistakes and death.  A story of forbidden, lethal, all-consuming love. TRIGGER WARNING: graphic violence, graphic S&M lesbian sex, major character death, depression/anxiety (mature)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: The title is inspired by one of Grell's wonderful quotes, "Red is the color of fiery passion, and I am flaming~!" As a diehard Grell and Madam shipper, I believe that Grell fell passionately in love with the Red woman, and their flaming romance shaped her life and broke her heart…forever. OTP fics are a given with me, and this one enters my writing into territories it has never braved before…the world of graphic violence and sex! Sounds fun, right? :D I want to explore Angelina's intimate relationship with her butler, whether it is chains and whips in the bedroom with her submissive lover or strangling a prostitute with their own uterus. This story will be written primarily with flashbacks. And when I say graphic, I mean _graphic_, to depict what went on in Madam Red's bedroom, the bloody streets of Whitechapel under Jack the Ripper's reign of terror, and most enigmatic and complicated of all…Grell's heart.

Flaming For Red

Chapter 1

Grell Sutcliffe POV

The whispers mean nothing to me. That, if nothing else, shows how far I am gone. An actress should bask in attention, but I'm disconnected from their words. _Grell's back! What has he been doing? Is he going to be suspended? This will set the precedent for severe shinigami punishments. I always knew Grell was a troublemaker. Look at all that blood! I'd gladly take Sutcliffe's job. _Instead of glaring at the shinigami who have dropped all their work to gawk at me, I slowly blink at the ground. The white tiles look blurry and defiantly refuse to come into focus, but they can't mask my eyes from seeing it again.

Her eyes were shocked in such a way that suggested betrayal. Anger, hurt, or surprise would not have been easier to deal with, but they would have cut less than disappointment. I'd never disappointed my lady before. When my tea didn't please her, I worked day and night until I'd learned the right way to steep it.

I didn't mean to kill her. It was a mistake. I was so enraged that she'd choose Ciel over me when I'd given up _everything _for her that I just snapped. I knew the boy was protected. Instead of protecting Madam Red like it was my duty to, I'd failed her. My scythe buzzed in my ears, so it was the simplest thing to silence her traitorous remarks by hacking her apart.

"What's happened to Grell? Is she injured?" A worried voice asks, catching up to William, who still has a hand tangled in my hair to prevent me from disappearing again. I don't look up to meet Alan's eyes, still too shocked to humor his concern.

"Sutcliffe's actions are confidential information and have no place in the rumor-mill," Will snaps. "His infractions are going to be punished properly, and he is unavailable for comment indeterminately."

"But-" Alan persists. Usually, he complies with his supervisor's dictates without question or complaint, so he must have been really worried about me in the months I have vanished from home.

"Humphries, he has acted in a way unbefitting of a shinigami. Getting involved would shame you." Will whisks me away from the crowd and hurries down the hallway until the double glass doors are visible. I flinch, fingers of dread curling over my shoulders as we enter the Shinigami Council.

"You caught him. Well done, Mr. Spears. Although," Lawrence Anderson, head of the Council and shinigami glasses-maker, clasps his hands on the oaken desk and fixes his eyes on us. "Perhaps the task could have been undertaken a bit more…expediently."

Will bows to the man, contrite in the presence of authority. "I am sorry, sir. However, due to the unusual circumstances of Sutcliffe's disappearance, finding clues to his whereabouts was extraordinarily difficult." He flicks his chartreuse eyes at me. "Sit down, Grell." I wordlessly sink into the cold metal chair facing the Council.

"How did you go about your search?" The head of the Administrative department, a plump man with balding gray hair to the right of Mr. Anderson, asks.

"As you remember, when Grell's Death List had inconsistencies, we reassigned his reapings," Will explains patiently.

"What do you mean by inconsistencies?" The Collections head asks next.

"Pardon me, sir, I thought you knew. Sutcliffe was killing humans not on the Death List." The Personnel manager gasps and scribbles notes on the parchment in front of him. "We tried to figure out his motives, but these humans did not seem to have anything substantial in common. They were all young ladies with botched pregnancies."

"Mr. Sutcliffe, for what possible reason did you commit such…such atrocities?" The Personnel manager demands.

"They were all prostitutes," I mumble, reluctantly drawn out of my self-imposed silence. I don't care what my verdict is nor what their comments are about my situation. None of this matters when the Madam's corpse is soaking the cobblestones of Whitechapel. "They deserved to die for killing their babies."

"Be that as it may," Mr. Anderson interrupts. "Shinigami should not get involved in human affairs. Mr. Spears, please continue your explanation."

"Yes, sir," Will replies. "At one point, Sutcliffe tried to return to his room, which was being guarded. Eric Slingby, a capable shinigami in my department, injured him but was not able to track Sutcliffe to his hideout. Slingby did notice, however, that he smelled of blood-human blood. Until then we did not know why he had disappeared. We were finally able to connect errant souls on our records that we had earlier assumed a demon snatched with Sutcliffe's interference.

"The human news reported a great malevolence in crime, a serial killer that none were able to find: Jack the Ripper. The humans that Sutcliffe had killed were ascribed to this mysterious Ripper, so we realized that Grell _was_ the Ripper, either alone or with help. With our contacts in Scotland Yard, we investigated the case, but our leads were dismally few. I decided to investigate myself, knowing Ciel Phantomhive-the queen's brat-would be working to discover Jack the Ripper on his own.

"While I could not get too close to their house with its wards, I followed him in his outings. A woman screamed, Ciel's butler opened the door, and another butler stepped out and began to fight the demon. The second butler later killed his accomplice, a red-headed society woman. After a time I realized this was Sutcliffe in disguise. I waited until he had been wounded and subsequently subdued to step into the altercation and drag him home," Will finishes.

"Mr. Sutcliffe, what was this red-headed woman to you?" Mr. Anderson asks me, peering at me over his thick-rimmed glasses.

I press my back into the hard chair, but there is no means of escape. If I materialized out of the Council room, there would be hell to pay. While that sounds fun in theory, I need to be alone right now. I swallow thickly. "Everything."

The London Shinigami Director trades a glance with the men sitting beside him. "Please elaborate."

"I…I cannot." The truth is too raw and profound to divulge to the judgmental supervisors. What was Angelina to me? My friend, my lover, my soulmate. My accomplice in crime. The woman I confided in and who trusted me. The woman who held me close at night after lighting my heart and soul aflame with passion, love, and lust. A gorgeous societal flower with a beautiful figure and heart. The woman I've always wanted to be.

"Your future is hinged on your answers. If you mislead us or refuse to answer a question, that can only be detrimental to you." I nod, still refusing to reveal our relationship. "Then I will rephrase that question. What was your business with her?"

"I was her butler," I answer succinctly, wishing this interrogation was over already.

"You weren't her maid?" Will asks with surprise, knowing my propensity for female clothing (on more than one occasion, he's made me clock out to change out of my new dresses. He won't admit that I'm distracting, so he recites paragraphs about the importance of shinigami staying in uniform. I can't wear a gown, but Eric leaves his shirt unbuttoned. Chauvinism, I tell you.)

"I had to be in disguise, of course. It was horrendous wearing men's clothing. I felt so disgusting with that wig and I didn't even wear makeup. I sacrificed everything for her, and then…" I fall silent, not intending to be so animated.

"You killed her," Will finishes. I cringe, fingers clenching around the chair's arms.

"But that doesn't explain why you joined on as her butler in the first place," Mr. Anderson points out. "Or why you killed this woman who is 'everything' to you."

"Who was she?" The Personnel head suddenly demands. I grit my teeth at his use of 'was'. "What was her name and profession? Was she proletarian or a noble?"

That, at least, is safe to answer. I don't want to be dismissed from my job-that was never my intention-but I'm still uncomfortable answering their personal questions. "Her name is Angelina Dalles. She was Baroness Burnett until her husband died in an accident. In society, she is known as Madam Red. She was in love with Ciel's father, but he married her sister, making the Madam Ciel's aunt. She graduated from the London Women's School for Medicine and was a doctor. She had to perform surgery on East End whores requesting abortions and snapped due to jealousy-we are both infertile women. The Madam was Jack the Ripper, filling my Death List with extra reapings in my district, and she wasn't caught because I decided to help her."

Pens scratch on paper as they process my confession. "Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Sutcliffe?" Mr. Anderson asks.

I shake my head wordlessly, hot tears brimming in the corner of my eyes. Madam and I were so happy. How could everything have gone so wrong?

"With London Dispatch numbers being so low, yours is a special case-but you will of course be punished. You are indefinitely suspended and will be under house arrest, effective immediately. Materialization is strictly prohibited and will result in transfer to a different branch. Further decisions affecting your future will be discussed shortly, so your punishment will likely be appended to. Thank you, Mr. Spears, for your efforts in this situation. You will be compensated in accordance with your actions. Please escort Mr. Sutcliffe to his room. No visitors permitted, understand. Dismissed."

Will bows again then strides out of the room, expecting me to follow. Alan lingers near the door with Eric at his side, evidently having watched the whole affair through the glass walls. "Grell, please talk to me," Alan pleads.

"Mr. Sutcliffe is under house arrest and cannot entertain visitors until further notice," Will interrupts, brushing past his subordinates.

"But what _happened_? She's covered in blood!"

Eric gently places a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Sometimes people need to be left alone to cope. Sutcliffe obviously isn't in the mood to talk about whatever happened. The best thing you can do right now is wait until he's ready." How would I ever be ready to talk about her death? I can't even confront it in my own mind!

"I'm always here for you, Grell," Alan calls as Will and I turn a corner and vanish from sight.

"No materialization," Will warns as we stop in front of my door. "That includes your scythe. You can leave your room only to eat in the lobby and to use the bathing area. Limit your interactions with other shinigami. The Dispatch Office is off-limits for now. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly." This is a form of psychological torture; they want me locked in my room to agonize over my 'sinful crime.' I'll obey their rules, but all bets are off if I'm transferred. I refuse to be anything but Dispatch.

"I'm ashamed of you. You had so much potential," is his parting shot. Will's disappointment does not weigh nearly as much as the Madam's.

I'm alone in the corridor, dark shadows emphasizing the drawn lines of my face. My hand numbly grips the brass doorknob and I stumble into my room, feeling like a stranger in lieu of my long absence. I'd rather fall asleep chained to the Madam's plush bed, her ripe bosom rubbing provocatively against my cheeks, my lips sucking her dusky nipples as they harden in my mouth. Just thinking about her naked body is enough to start a low throbbing deep within me.

A single wet tear runs in a rivulet over my cheekbones, leaving a trail of sloppily-applied mascara. I sit at my desk and stare blankly at the red-painted wall, pulling off her jacket. My hand trembles uncontrollably as I stroke the jacket's hole, imagining the pain-both emotional and physical-the wound from my scythe must have caused her. I cannot fold the jacket; it's too caked with blood to bend. My arms are also spattered with her red liquid. I press my forehead against the thick fabric and sniff deeply, trying to inhale her flirtatious perfume. More tears trace the path of the first, and before long I'm sobbing uncontrollably. Squeezing the Madam's jacket to my chest, I wail with agony. I have never felt this bereaved, this broken.

If only there was a way to relive my time with her. I would sacrifice anything to rewind the clock. If I was human, I'd make a contract with a demon to bring her back to life. I'd been too focused on the fight to notice Will's presence. If he'd followed the Madam and I home after disposing of the Watchdog's fiend and tried to make me leave my lady's side, I'd have killed him. Better him than Angelina.

Once my shoulders stop shuddering, throat raw with crying, I gasp at the crazy idea that comes to mind. I don't know if anyone collected hers, but even shinigami have Cinematic Records. Watching my own would require an act of self-mutilation, but there's nothing I wouldn't do to see her smile again. With grim resolve, I rummage through my Academy paraphernalia until I find my trainee scythes. The handheld sickles gleam dangerously in the wan moonlight. These will be easier to use than my safety scissors.

I grit my teeth and slash the skin of my wrist open. A thin line of blood wells up, and with it, my recent memories compacted as Cinematic Record start to play.

_"I will not yield this time!" Her ladyship roars, face contorted in anger as she confronts her nephew. The demon I have pinned to the wall jerks out of my grip, almost losing his arm to my hungry scythe in the process. I whirl around in time to see his claw-like fingers closing in on my love's pale neck. Before I can materialize at her side, the Phantomhive brat commands his demon to stop as Madam Red's hand freezes before she can deliver the fatal blow. _

_ "What are you doing?" I demand. "Kill him already!" If he lives, we'll be caught!_

No, that's too recent. I pause the Cinematic Record and make a deeper incision in my arm.

_She is the center of attention, which comes as no surprise. I salivate over both her clothes and the body bursting from them. Her red gown is one I'd love to wear, but alas, servants don dull colors. My mistress truly shines even amidst the fancy costumes of the ball-goers. She laughs and gossips with members of the gentry, the Chinese man by her side. _He _is not her lover; _I _am. But I can't reveal my jealousy in front of the perceptive demon. I'm sure he has sensed that I'm a shinigami, but he hasn't confronted me about it. We both pretend to be humans, masking our true species and intentions. I do enjoy mysteries, but if he interferes with my lady's affairs, he'll suffer._

_ "Grell," Angelina says, placing her empty wineglass in my hand. "Refill my glass."_

_ "Yes, Madam." I incline my head and disappear into the crowd, recognizing her code-words that we had planned earlier. If a woman is killed while my lady is at the party, she will be above suspicion. The demon is busy helping his master inspect another Jack the Ripper suspect who is hosting this party, so I materialize into a dark alley of Whitechapel to do her bidding._

That memory isn't nearly far enough back. I clamp my teeth and swallow back a moan as I slice open my wrist until my scythe is plunged nearly a half-inch deep into my skin.

_She opens the door and escorts me into her London townhouse without saying a word of welcome. Angelina sinks into a velvet chair and begins to wring out her bloody hair. I wonder if she's being silent because of regret, or worse, fear of the shinigami standing beside her. _

_ "A penny for your thoughts, Madam."_

_ "Bring me a basin of water, and scissors while you're at it. My hair is so soaked with blood that I might as well chop it all off."_

Just a little…further…

_"I get to reap in Whitechapel~!" I sing, flipping through the recent updates to my Death List. "There's an awful lot of death here. I'm excited to see what the drama's about!"_

_ Ronnie, my orange-headed coworker, shrugs. "The East End is too dirty for my tastes. Anyway, demons would rather scavenge in a slum than in a city, and spending time in the infirmary is lame."_

_ "If you were stronger, you wouldn't have to worry about fiends injuring you," I chide. "And don't be such a snob towards my district; humans who live there have sensational lives. It's like watching a penny novel!"_

Yes, that's where I want to start. That is the day I first encountered the Madam, so it's a perfect place to start watching my Cinematic Records. I ignore the throbbing pain in my gushing arm and let my memories of her glide through my mind once again.

Author's Note: My updates for this fic will regrettably not be that frequent because of school and my novel (and I still have to do my Jack the Ripper research, which is…disturbing). Your comments will quicken my pace! But don't worry, I love this story and want to work on it. The first chapter was a little gentler, but the next ones will have super gory scenes followed by smut. But apparently there's some rule about linking to lemons instead of posting them on DA, so I'll have to provide links to this story on FF and AO3. I'm slow at posting and updating my fics on those websites because DA gives me more motivation than they do. Anyway, an apology to Grell: I'm sorry for using male pronouns for you-I _know_ you're a woman-but that's how other shinigami speak about you and I wanted this story to be authentic. It isn't an AU; it matches up with canon. Which is sad because the ending would be a lot happier if you and the Madam had a happily ever after (which wouldn't happen because my OTPs always end up dead in canon), but she needs human society as much as you need your job. Also, I'm sorry for showing the world your bleakest moments. But the thing is, you're a really complicated person, and your sadness never shows on your public face. I want people to know how much you care about the Madam, even though the memory of her is now painful for you. To see my characterization of Grell after the Madam's death, you can check out my fic "Shinigami Haken Kyoukai DEATH~!" See you at the next chapter of Flaming For Red! :D And please leave a comment~


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Whitechapel, London, England. Wednesday, August 1, 1888. 1:15 A.M.

I scratch the time and date onto a piece of parchment tucked inside my Death List. Filling out paperwork is always a bore, but it'll be much more productive if I do so while waiting for my soul to be ready to reap. William should be proud. Tonight is a usual London summer night, a humidity that sinks to your very bones. The stench of rotting garbage and decaying animal flesh wafts up to the church-tower that I am perched on. The only humans about are those, as they call it, 'on the game'; women selling their bodies for three pence. And more than a few drunks stumble to some bush or doorstep, pull a scavenged newspaper over their faces, and start to snore.

I shift position and rest my back against the gleaming spire, but that doesn't stave off my boredom. I'd expect a drunken brawl to occur any second, but the night is silent except for the faint groans and conversations emanating from people's half-closed windows. And here I thought it would be worthwhile to show up twenty minutes early to my reaping.

My perceptive eyes latch onto the movement, a blot on the end of the alley advancing towards me. What need could someone have for riding a horse through a red-light district at one in the morning? The rider brings the horse to a stop underneath my church and ties it to a broken lamppost that doesn't emanate light as the glass has been shattered. The figure steps down from the horse and strokes its mane. "Shh, Lycoris," She warns as the horse nickers. "You've been a good boy, but you need to be silent." She offers a sugar cube to her animal to placate him. "It'll be just a little while until I get back."

Intrigued, I snap my binder shut and tuck it under my arm then begin to follow her. Whatever her plans are, they'll certainly be entertaining.

I don't have to be human to recognize that she doesn't belong here. For one, it's the way she walks, each step full of grave dignity, confident and bordering on arrogance. Her clothes aren't rags and don't have any patches, instead being a beautiful red jacket and skirt. I've been watching humans long enough to surmise that she is a wealthy woman, perhaps even one who carries a title. Viscountess? Her hair is a bright red that matches the shade of mine, neatly braided into a bun. Her lipstick is applied perfectly, making her plump lips shine. The women who usually prowl about this late at night have rouge smeared across their cheeks until they look like clowns. This lady is obviously not a streetwalker.

But she has come to kill one.

I almost squeal when I catch sight of the hunting knife tucked into the glove of her right hand. I would never expect such a beautiful lady to be a murderer. Perhaps her beauty is her alibi; constables would rather worship such a woman than suspect her. If I could reveal myself, I'd ask what her motive is. I burn to know what it took to make her bloodthirsty. She's probably the reason that a soul is on my list tonight.

The woman strides up to a door and raps on it sharply. I watch from the roof of a building adjacent. Even if she looked right at me, the darkness is too absolute for human's eyes to detect my presence. The sign indicates that the building is a dosshouse, so whoever lives here is poor. Perhaps a relative or a friend? But the time and her knife indicates that this is no ordinary social visit. She waits a few seconds before pounding on the door again.

"Have off!" A female voice calls from inside. "Me fee was already paid. If you want me company, call again tomorrow. Can one not rest aroun' here?"

"You misunderstand, Ms. Black. I'm Dr. Angelina Dalles and came to make sure you are recovering properly." Angelina has not only extraordinary beauty but intelligence too; female doctors are rare flowers. How admirable. We are women with similar traits, so I'm sure we'd get along well. But as she's human, I can never talk to her.

After a short silence, the door opens cautiously and a black-haired young woman peers at the red-head, flickering candle in her hand. "Dr. Dalles? Whaddaya want? I don' got no money for another check-up."

"Of course," Angelina replies smoothly. "Routine check-ups are included with the fee you have already paid. Since this is confidential, I have to ask: are you alone now?"

"See, I wouldna be, but Lizzy chased me man away. That filthy bit-oh, excuse me, doctor. But why visit at such an ungodly hour?" Ms. Black opens the door wider and readjusts the lace shawl covering her nightgown.

Angelina smiles coldly. The younger woman is taken aback by her change in expression and frowns uncertainly. "This way, Ms. Black, there is no witness," She says, voice darkening with each syllable. Angelina's pupils dilate and shadows descend over her face, making her expression sinister. "An eye for an eye, like the Bible says. You do read your Bible like a good little lady, don't you?" Her voice is dangerous and perverse, bordering on craziness.

Ms. Black lets out a whimper and tries to run away, but Angelina grabs her hair and shoves a handkerchief into her mouth. The desperate gagging sounds she makes just widens Angelina's smile. Ms. Black tries to push her away, but when the doctor flourishes her dagger, she freezes with wide, frightened eyes. "Naughty little whores deserve death. Childbirth is a blessing, and instead of being grateful for your gift, you murdered your child!"

With this proclamation, Angelina stabs her victim's throat. Instead of trying to sever the head from the body-which is a difficult task for humans-she has sliced Ms. Black's jugular vein. Within minutes, she'll be dead. An efficient death, albeit a short one.

_Death from bloodloss, _I scratch into my Death List. _Murdered by Angelina Dalles._

Ms. Black's body loses its strength and collapses onto the pavement while blood spurts from her neck like a fountain. The doctor uses her boot to push the woman back into her room as she stills, becoming a corpse. 1:35 A.M., right on time. After checking to see that her pulse has stopped, Angelina removes the handkerchief gag. Quietly shutting the door, she wipes her knife with the handkerchief then tucks both into her glove, displaying no emotion. I watch as she calmly walks back to the lamppost, mounts her horse, and is swallowed by the night. No one would suspect her of murder; she's left no possessions to indict her and her clothes aren't blood-stained.

"Bravo, Angelina." I clap slowly, relishing the dramatic sound of each patter, the sound as pleasing as her voice. "It's so refreshing to watch a lady kill. I only hope that you aren't caught. Perhaps we'll meet again." Smiling, I leap down from the building to enter Ms. Black's residence.

My hands itch until I'm finally able to summon my scythe. I stand over the body with blood pooled under her throat with my revved chainsaw and plunge the weapon into her stomach. Because her soul has already vacated, no wound will mark her body, and instead her Cinematic Records wind around my legs. There hasn't been a human in our lifetimes worthy of allowing more than their allotted lifespan, but browsing through their Records is company procedure before returning to the Library.

Eliza Black was orphaned at sixteen and had a sister whose pneumonia was so bad that she couldn't work, let alone get out of bed. Their father drowned at sea and their mother waded into the ocean until waves buried her. Eliza was too distraught over her parents' death to continue her delicate task of patchwork, and her mom wasn't there to coax her on. But money was a necessity to pay the doctor's bills and to feed her sister. Eliza had always been pretty, so it wasn't too hard to pick up men on the street instead. They treated her roughly and she felt defiled afterwards, but at least it kept her sister alive. When she unintentionally became pregnant, Eliza knew that she wouldn't be able to raise a baby in those conditions-especially one created without love-so she had Angelina, a doctor working at a Whitechapel women and children's clinic, abort her unborn child. After Angelina killed Eliza, her sister will surely die too with no one to provide for her. I yawn, reeling the Cinematic Records into my scythe. No further comments.

Angelina's Cinematic Records are sure to be interesting. What could drive a rich, intelligent woman to risk _everything_ by murdering her patients? What kind of past would result in a heart so cold that the murder of a fellow woman results in no tears or shock? If she kills again, I'll be watching with glee.

The entire week I've been waiting for this day that Angelina's name again appears in my Death List. Distracted as I was by my upcoming encounter with my favorite lady murderess, I mindfully collected all the souls I was allotted, so now I can sit back and enjoy the show.

My ears register the chestnut horse's heavy breaths at quarter to two. I close my raunchy paperback (I didn't know how early she'd arrive) and stand, eyes swiveling from a church's bell-tower to latch onto the rider and horse. Blanketed by darkness, Angelina leads her horse to a tree in an empty park and ties him to an overhanging branch. She walks purposefully over the cobblestones, each step bringing her farther away from the church I perch on. I leap to the next roof and make powerful strides to catch up to her hustling figure.

A constable makes his rounds in a street adjacent to her. She's not going to see him before he's upon her, and then she'll be searched for breaking curfew. I debate intervening, knowing that when he finds the dagger tucked in her glove, the consequences will be disastrous for my favorite murderess…Alerted by his swinging lantern, Angelina halts and ducks into a shop's doorway. He continues ambling down the street, whistling _My Fair Lady_, oblivious to the criminal that was mere meters from him.

Letting out a relieved breath, Angelina turns and slows her walk until she reaches a nondescript lodging house. The sign reads George Yard Buildings. As she enters the building, I leap onto its roof, ears attuned to chatter from within. One of the only people awake in the building, she knocks on a door that no one opens. Giving up, she exits George Yard and rummages through a nearby trash bin until she finds an old newspaper. Propping herself near the entrance, Angelina spreads the newsprint over her face and breathes slowly. I surmise that she is pretending to be asleep. It'd be more expedient to search for the person she means to kill, but I suppose humans can't sense the presence of souls near them.

I perch on my heels on the edge of the roof. If I extended my arm my fingertips would brush her red hair. The Shinigami Manual warns us that exposing ourselves to humans is unnecessary. It's alright to frequent human parks and pubs, but explaining our purpose as reapers will cause panic. So when we're standing on buildings or trees or carriages, we should be as silent as possible.

The next ten minutes are as boring as they are silent. I left my novel on that church so all I can do is watch Angelina's bosom rise and fall repetitively. A strange stirring starts low in my stomach at the sight of her perfect pale, round chest. Envy, I suppose, for not every girl is gifted with such a chest.

She tosses the newspaper aside and rises when her ears register the footsteps. "Martha Tabram, I've been waiting for you."

"Why…if it isn't Doctor Dalles!" The brunette exclaims. She is far older than the first prostitute, lines of age creasing her face. Her beauty has been diminished over the years and her roughly-applied makeup worsens the effect. "What a surprise! To what do I owe this vis-? Ah!" Angelina presses her knife against the older woman's throat. "Have you gone mad?" Martha gasps.

"Quiet," Angelina barks, increasing the pressure of her weapon and drawing a thin line of blood across her throat. "Tonight, I'll send your soul to hell, as far away from your child as can be."

"Oh, it's about that, is it?" Martha frowns in disgust then unexpectedly kicks out at Angelina. The red-head hits the wall, head snapping back. She groans with pain and sinks to the ground. I cover my mouth so the gasp is inaudible. Fight, Angelina! "Tell me, Doctor, how could I raise a child like this? The money they pay me isn't nearly enough. Thought you would kill me, didja? Think you're so much more holy just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth?" Martha spits at the Doctor's head and grasps the doorknob of George Yard Buildings. "I could hurt you, but that would be stooping to your level. I'll report you and then you'll be locked away. Not so holy now, eh?"

Martha doesn't see Angelina's smirk, nor the shadow as she stands back up. She tightens her grip on the dagger and lunges at Martha's back. Angelina must have been pretending to be hurt to make Martha relax. The Doctor's intelligence has been proven yet again. The prostitute stiffens, hand cradling her wound. Blood drips over her thick fingers. Angelina stabs her knuckles and darts back as Martha swings around and tries to hit her.

Martha watches Angelina warily as she is circled by the predator. Martha presses her back against the wooden door and raises her fists defensively. The red-head darts forward and simultaneously kicks Martha's crotch while stabbing her stomach. She buries the knife up to its hilt and twists, blood pooling around the wound and dripping over her manicured hands. Martha screams in agony but musters enough energy to smack her opponent's face. The doctor stumbles back, unsteady on her heels, and collides with the pavement. Grab the knife, quick! Whoever has it has the advantage!

Clutching the dagger, Martha tries to pull it out of her stomach. The pain proves to be too much and she slumps to the ground, panting. Angelina finally regains her balance, so she tugs at her weapon until it pops out of the older woman, the blade slick with blood. One hand instinctively covers the wound but Martha grasps Angelina's throat with the other. She starts to choke as Martha squeezes, and her grip on the knife loosens until it clatters out of her hands, leaving a trail of blood droplets squelching in its wake.

Angelina's throat is mottled with red in the shape of chubby fingerprints by the time Martha's grip slackens, immobilized with pain from her gushing wound. Angelina doubles over, gasping for breath, massaging her raw neck. The weapon is just out of Martha's reach. "Just die already," Angelina spits, swiping the knife from the ground and gouging Martha's stomach again. A scream tears from one woman's throat, a merciless laugh from the other. Fat tears splash down Martha's face, mingling with the blood pouring from her wound, both women streaked in red. "Oh, shut it, you old boor. _I'm_ the one that God is pitying."

I'm too distracted by Angelina's knifing to puzzle over her statement. Martha winces and moans with each new wound as Angelina stabs her stomach, chest, and groin. The victim's will to fight leaves her body with each blood droplet sinking into the cobblestones. Angelina cuts the woman like a butcher tearing apart a calf, unflinchingly and rapidly. Red liquid stains the doctor's face and arms. Her slick dagger slips out of her grip and splashes in the puddle of blood.

Martha's head lolls to the side so Angelina doesn't bother to check that her pulse has stopped. The prostitute is so full of holes that she looks like an empty pincushion. Angelina tucks the knife in her glove again, using the handkerchief to wipe clean her arms, throat, and face. The bloodstains on her fabric will take a few washings to remove, and her hair will need to be thoroughly scrubbed by a maid before it resumes its normal shade. The servants in her house will have a lot of work tonight. I wonder how much they know of their mistresses' nighttime affairs and how many pounds it took to swear them to secrecy.

Angelina begins to walk away, so I leap from the building and swipe my scythe through Martha's stomach. Ignoring the Cinematic Records snapping at my arms, I push the prone woman into the building so the murderer is thought to be one of its residents. I mop the blood from the door and the pavement with my necktie until the white is rendered invisible, lending a hand to my favored murderess. The pungent smell of blood makes me want to hack apart my own prostitute. Reeling the Records into my scythe and dematerializing the chainsaw, I remember my novel left on the church-tower and go to collect it. Before I head home, I notice Angelina collapsed on the ground, panting. Did her conscience make her knees buckle?

Against my better judgment (although Will would insist that I don't possess one of those), my grip loosens on the spire and gravity pulls me towards the cobblestones. My knees bend and cushion the impact, red hair whipping around my face. I can't let Angelina suffer, for she did nothing wrong. Vengeance is as natural as love. "You've made my district ever so jam-packed with deaths," I declare.

Her eyes meet mine at the sound of the impact, but they are unseeing. Angelina's trembling hand fishes the dagger out of her glove to ward me off. I cradle the shuddering woman, gloved hand stroking her feathery hair. "Don't worry. I'm on your side," I whisper, protectively resting my head on hers. She closes her eyes, slowly lowering the knife to her lap. "I understand, Lady Dalles. I understand the pain you have. You must be killing those woman, so carelessly throwing away the gift of a child, because you cannot birth one of your own. I'm right, aren't I?" A tear glistens under her left eyelid that I gently wipe away with a thumb.

"It's alright. You did nothing wrong," I reassure her softly. "The death those horrible broads received was far less than they deserved. I too cannot birth a child, for am I lady who happens to be physically male. We share these problems and secrets. Humans would consider your murders to be crimes, but I'm not human; I'm a grim reaper. I'll help you, Angelina. You don't have to kill alone anymore. I, Miss Grell Sutcliffe, shinigami extraordinaire, am on your side." I did not come reaping tonight with the plan to join Angelina-I didn't pack my wardrobe or makeup-but this is surprisingly satisfactory. Illegal by both human and shinigami standards, yes, but this is one adventure I'll always cherish.

Angelina is silent, thumbs stroking her bloody dagger. "A grim reaper," She repeats, finally voicing a thought.

I grin, sharp teeth gleaming in the dim lamplight, and stand up, materializing my scythe excitedly. "Isn't my chainsaw so beautiful~?" At Angelina's stricken expression, I'm quick to explain, "I won't hurt _you_ with it. It's for viewing the memories of human souls and transporting them back to our shinigami home, the Library. We have Death Lists with the times and places of human deaths, and we have to collect their souls before a demon does. It's such a dramatic job, watching people die over and over again and doing nothing to stop it. But I was getting a _teensy_ bit restless with the monotonous deaths...until you came along."

I close my hand and notice her blink at the sudden disappearance of my scythe. "I can also materialize-transport from one place to another instantaneously. With these powers, no one will realize who is behind your murders." I turn away, hair spilling over my shoulders and tumbling down my back, a practiced move. "Of course, if you'd rather work alone, I can return to the Library. You'll probably be publicly executed once you're caught…but if you don't need my help, that's your choice, Miss Angelina." I tilt my head, smirking, my expression shielded from her gaze.

"…Miss Grell, was it? I'm sorry; I'm in a bit of shock right now. This is obviously an unexpected turn of events, so forgive me for being unresponsive. Your offer is very kind, and I'm grateful that you'll protect me. Together, we can kill more of those whores than I planned to." I face the doctor and watch her expression turn vicious again. Yes, I definitely like this woman. She stashes her weapon away and stands. "Let's see…you'll have to be my servant. That's the best way to explain your presence at my side."

"You want me to live with you?" I interrupt, gleaning her intention. "But that would mean leaving my job, my friends, and pretending to be human…"

"That's the sacrifice you'd make. But if I'm caught, my sacrifice would be my life. And I deserve to live so much more than those broads." I nod, agreeing with her. "The best way for you to protect me is to always be with me. You can let me know if I'm being watched or suspected, and you can perform killings in my stead. Although you are the one helping me, let's not forget that I killed those two woman on my own. _ I_ am the one in charge here."

"That's a tall order for a human to a reaper," I say, amused.

Angelina's eyes flash. "Are you defying me, servant?"

An unexpected tremor shoots down my spine. "N-no, Angelina," I answer, playing along, a slight smile on my lips.

"And you call yourself a lady?"

As she triggers my intense vexation, the smile drops from my face. "I don't know what you mean, but I _am_ a lady."

"Then where are you manners?" Angelina continues, gently chiding me. I relax as I realize the intent of her rebuke. "You don't call your mistress by her first name. You can call me 'my lady' or 'Madam Red.' Alright, Grell?"

"Yes, my lady," I acquiesce with a nod. The words, although new, seem to fit and roll off my tongue. "I'm sorry for misspeaking."

"Good, you're trainable," She replies as if I'm a pet. "Now, it's getting awfully late and we don't want that constable to pass us before we leave. Lycoris can hold the both of us, so follow me." She turns and heads to her horse without looking back to ascertain my presence. After mounting the chestnut, she offers a hand to pull me up. My gangly fingers fold around her petite gloved hand and a warmth washes through me.

On the ride to her house, my first time on a horse, I lose myself to the sensations. The horse's sleek rump moves underneath mine with each step on the loose cobblestones. The Madam's chest expands and contracts with each breath of hers, each exhalation soft like the morning breeze. My arms wrap around her waist, pressed against the firmness of her build and the rich fabric she dons. A gust of wind swirls the refuse left on the streets, newspapers flapping past the horse's legs and rubbish being trampled underneath, while lifting tendrils of my hair. The scent of blood still lingers on her body that I inhale like a spicy perfume. Night slowly draws up the curtains and humans begin to stir. It's not early enough to wander about the streets, but it is time to change a baby's diapers or make love before their children awake or splash water over their face and hope their headache will abate before they head to work or even return home before they are caught near the prostitute they murdered.

When we arrive, her ladyship fishes a key out of her jacket and unlocks the door after settling Lycoris in for the night. She opens the door and escorts me into her London townhouse without saying a word of welcome. Angelina sinks into a velvet chair and begins to wring out her bloody hair. I wonder if she's being silent because of regret, or worse, fear of the shinigami standing beside her.

"A penny for your thoughts, Madam."

"Bring me a basin of water, and scissors while you're at it. My hair is so soaked with blood that I might as well chop it all off."

"It's so beautiful though…" I sigh, going off to fetch the implements she desires. After a few minutes of confusion, I return to the room. I would have asked a servant for help, but they are probably at her main residence in lieu of the planned murders, another incident proving Angelina's intelligence. "I'm sorry, but I don't know where you keep anything. Can you please give me a tour of your house, my lady?"

Angelina sighs. "That can wait until tomorrow, as can questions or conversation or normal introductions. I'll get the scissors myself and then I'll head to bed. This night has been very tiring." She stands up, hair unbraided and framing her face in a glorious, bloody mass as she points down a hallway. "Your room is at the end of this corridor on the left side. Good night, Grell."

"Good night, my lady," I reply courteously with a practiced curtsy. She smiles tightly, delineating lines of stress on her face, and wearily shuffles to another room as I leave her sight.

The room she has selected for me is furnished elegantly but still seems barren. I get the sense that it is unlived in. A pang of longing for my room in the Library hits me, its red walls and mouth-watering wardrobe and conglomeration of cosmetics pleasing my eyes each time I wake. But at home, the drama is miniscule compared to a human doctor killing prostitutes without detection. I'm so excited to lend my artistry to mutilating human bodies, blood the best paint any woman could ask for. There'll be plenty of deliciously macabre pictures to add to my collection~!

This wardrobe is unstocked. I sigh, hoping Angelina plans a shopping trip into London tomorrow. I suppose I could stop back home and grab the most necessary dresses, but the Madam must remain secret. There is no question that what I am going to involve myself in is antithetic to the Shinigami Rulebook. However, with my work record, I'm sure I won't be suspended for _too_ long. If the Madam is caught…_when_ she's caught…I'll be my normal chainsaw-slinging, red-obsessed gorgeous shinigami Dispatch woman instead of a murderess's servant. But she's such an interesting human that I'll protect her for as long as I can.

Author's Note: I enjoyed describing Madam's nighttime murder spree. Grell is impressed at first, but soon she'll be enthralled. Yay, the violence you've been waiting for! Don't worry, the sex is coming. There's a riding crop in the next chapter~ There are probably more victims of Jack the Ripper than are credited, but Martha Tabram was one of the first to be killed. She actually died from 39 stab wounds. I think a horse explains how Angelina was able to escape the scene without being caught before Grell could help her. Lycoris is a red flower that, according to An's love Vincent Phantomhive, matches the color of her hair. It may also be the flower that falls in her funeral, and these are the same that are featured in the upcoming fourth Kuroshitsuji musical.


End file.
